


Pacifist

by thedevilchicken



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Bruises, Clothed/Naked, Fight Sex, First Time, Fisting, Glove Kink, Light Bondage, Loss of Control, M/M, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Switching, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Owen doesn't like to fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



Deckard has his hands around Owen's throat. 

It doesn't always happen like this. Sometimes when they meet - whether they've planned it in advance (Owen has to admit he gets a cheap thrill from the planning) or it's just coincidental (though that particular coincidence does seem to crop up more often than you'd think, so maybe that's just Deckard's special way of planning) - Deckard's just come in from a job or else Owen has and so all they do is sleep, or perhaps it's that most subtle variation where they eat and _then_ they sleep. Twenty minutes of silence over Tesco's own brand beef lasagne straight out of the plastic microwave tray and a glass of disappointingly cheap plonk shouldn't make all the difference to their day, but sometimes it does. It really does.

Sometimes Owen's managed to get himself hurt or else Deckard has - in his lighter moods, Deckard mutters something about workmans' comp and their lack thereof - and so all they do is patch themselves up, or patch each other up, and _then_ sleep. Deckard has more scars than Owen has, which Owen knows says more about the difference in their work than Deckard's proficiency at it, since more or less anyone else would have significant trouble making it back in one piece rather than in several from the jobs his brother does - and Owen was the one who cleaned and stitched and bandaged most of them. The armed forces taught him a lot of things but the most useful of them was actually first aid, though he supposes at least half of his knowledge of human anatomy comes from breaking people apart instead of putting them back together. Still, both skills are useful in his line of work.

Or, sometimes, Deckard's pissed off or Owen's overly frustrated (running his own crew has its advantages but when disputes inevitably arise they're more often settled by a bullet or two from a gun in his hand than by HR), or it's the other way around, and those are the times they can barely stand to be in the same room for more than twenty minutes, though that's usually just long enough. That's the thing about brothers, Owen thinks: you can love someone to the idiotic extent that you'll kill for them, multiple times across multiple continents, and still not particularly like them every now and then, from time to time. Of course, they stay in the damn room anyway, pair of stubborn fucking bastards that they are. They wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.

And then, there are times like this. 

Deckard has his hands around Owen's throat. This is nothing new, of course, and Owen doesn't exactly wish to lodge a formal complaint, wouldn't even if there were actually a bureau to deal with that; he more or less walked him straight into it, after all. He got Deckard angry because his fucking idiot brother had done the same to him because Owen always, _always_ , knows when Deckard's letting him win. It irritates him like nothing else on earth, mostly because if he's going to win, he'd like it to be on his own merits and not because Deckard can't be arsed to make an effort or else just doesn't fancy wiping the floor with him again, or maybe he fought enough on the latest job he did that his knuckles are bruised and he just wants to eat and sleep and maybe screw, not necessarily in that order. He doesn't even try to make it convincing sometimes, just to add insult to complete lack of injury. 

Usually Owen just stops abruptly and tells him to go fuck himself then walks away like a petulant teenager. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he fucking lamped him, and yes, so it's fair to say he probably wouldn't have got the shot in at all if Deckard had been paying closer attention to the bloody job at hand, but that's the fucking point - he hit him because he wasn't paying attention. 

Deckard went down like a tonne of bricks with a satisfying yelp of surprise. And when he shifted around and gathered himself and finally looked up at Owen from his knees on the kitchen floor tiles, brows raised like _what the bloody hell was that?_ , his bottom lip was split just off-centre and there was blood on his teeth and in the stubble on his chin, trickling down his neck into the otherwise immaculate collar of his otherwise clean white shirt. Owen held out a hand to him and when Deckard reached for it, he just pushed him down again so he sprawled on his back on the kitchen floor. He deserved it 100% right then if he ever deserved it. Sometimes he really does.

Deckard went back up to his knees. He spat blood onto the kitchen floor tiles - Owen has a vague recollection of thinking the whole kitchen still smelled faintly of bleach from the clean-up after the last time - and sat there on his heels, probably scuffing up the toes of his overly expensive shoes but Deckard's never really cared about that kind of thing at a time like that, looking at him. He touched the first two fingers of one hand to his split lip and he scowled when they came away bloody, and wiped them on his trousers, which would probably stain but it wasn't like it was the first suit he'd ever ruined, and not even the first one he'd ruined doing something like that. Owen remembers bullet holes and powder burns a surprisingly clean cut from a combat knife that went all the way down to Deckard's femur before Owen broke the knife-wielding arsehole's neck and dumped him in the Volga. He remembers a tuxedo at an embassy in Paris and the 'accident' with the bottle of very good red wine that got both of them out past the embarrassed security guards before the alarms had had a change to go off, and how he licked that very good red wine off Deckard's skin back in their ridiculous hotel room just off the Rue de Rivoli. 

"You're going to regret that," Deckard said, pulling himself up to his feet. Owen somehow didn't quite believe that; when Deckard came at him, that was precisely what he'd meant to happen.

Contrary to popular belief, Owen doesn't actually like to fight. He really doesn't. It has its advantages when words gets round - people underestimate him constantly, despite his reputation. There are disadvantages to it, too, of course: the first it everyone thinks you're soft if you say you're not keen on fighting, so you have to prove them wrong or it all ends up in bloody anarchy, and while Owen would agree that anarchy is an interesting notion philosophically, it doesn't work particularly well when it comes to running a crew. The second is everyone thinks they can take you in a fight so you have to prove them wrong, too, or...well, or chances are it's anarchy again. It's odd how people thinking you're some kind of tree-hugging, tofu-munching, sandal-wearing certified pacifist seems to end in tears so often, he thinks. He supposes it's just as well his personal morality isn't even in the same bracket as pacifism. It's not even pacifism-adjacent. He just doesn't like to fight, that's all there is to it. 

Still, none of that changes the fact that about four hours ago he punched someone in the face and knocked out two of his teeth. People tend to think _doesn't like to fight_ means _can't fight_ , like it's just code for being crap at it and not a valid preference. He's not crap at it. And he knows precisely who he has to thank for that: it's not the time he spent in the forces; it's his big brother, Deckard Shaw. 

The fight didn't last long. Once Deckard's pissed off enough to actually _fight_ him, it never really does last long: Owen knows he's not as quick or as strong and frankly he jsut doesn't have the kind of experience that Deckard has in that area, so it didn't last long. Soon Owen was the one on the floor, with two smashed plates and a coffee mug that apparently hadn't seen fit to die in pieces despite its fall from the counter. And while his head was still fucking reeling, Deckard grabbed a handful of his shirt and his jacket and he dragged him bodily out of the kitchen, down the hall, straight into the bedroom. He hauled him up onto the bed. He pushed and pulled him out of his suit and his shoes, his shoulder holster (he tossed the gun onto the floor, out of the way), Owen was face-down against the mattress with his arse in the air before he really knew what was happening except he supposes he knew what to expect. Forty seconds later, Deckard was in him, balls-deep and still fully dressed except for the fact that he was flying low. Forty seconds after that, Deckard shoved him onto his back and pushed back into him again. And he wrapped his hands around Owen's throat. 

Sometimes, Deckard keeps his hands on him till he passes out and if Owen does pass out, he knows Deckard will just keep on fucking him afterwards. He never tries to stop him, because making him stop isn't even close the the point. If he wanted him to stop, he wouldn't've pushed him in the first place. He'd never have pushed, not tonight, not nine weeks ago, not three months before that, never, right back to the first time when Owen was seventeen years old and irritable and irritating and everyone said he wanted to be just like his big brother except that wasn't the thought in his head even remotely. He's never wanted to _be_ Deckard; they've got different strengths and different weaknesses and they always have had and Owen's always known that. What he wanted was to be as good at something as his brother was. What he wanted was to make his brother proud, or at least that's what he told himself it was. 

And, at seventeen years old, leafing through a dirty magazine he'd somehow managed to pick up from some shifty little shop in town whose proprietor should've known better, he realised something else: as he was masturbating over a photo of some bloke half in and half out of a crappy soldier costume that looked like it'd come from a cheap post-Halloween sale at BHS, he realised he had a thing for men in uniform. The issue was, it was one particular man and one particular uniform, or at least it was one particular man in any number of uniforms because Deckard had worn a few over the years and sometimes Owen's stripped him out of it, slowly, toying with buttons, setting every piece aside in turn. Sometimes he's had him keep it on when they've met, when they've fucked, that time in the camp in Bosra up against the barracks wall, fighting in the back of a supply truck in Kabul till Deckard went down on his knees in his service dress, like anyone else in a fucking hundred mile radius was wearing service dress, and he blew him on top of a crate of M16s. The fact was, _he wanted his brother_. Full stop. End of paragraph. It probably should have disturbed him more than it did, which was absolutely not at all.

So, the next time Deckard came home on leave, after a night's sleep and a rubbish breakfast the next morning (Deckard can slice an onion in the blink of an eye but his cooking's complete and utter crap), Deckard asked, "So, what do you want to do today?" and Owen threw the dirty magazine down on the kitchen table, pointed to it, and said, "That."

He remembers how Deckard snorted, apparently amused, as he sat back heavily against the high back of his dining chair. He remembers how Deckard picked up the magazine and had a quick flick through it, smirking, glancing up at him across the table every now and then, his brows raised. He rubbed his face, ran his fingers the wrong way over the stubble on his chin he hadn't bothered to shave off with a faint sort of rasping sound and said, "Have you ever even had a blow job yet? What are you, twelve?"

"Tom from sixth form," Owen replied, straightforwardly, his hands flat on the table, though it frankly didn't feel all that straightforward. "After football. Behind the bike sheds. And I was seventeen six months ago. Stop fucking about." 

Deckard looked back down at the magazine. "You should spend less time with Tom from sixth form," he said, and Owen honestly wasn't sure if he was serious or not, then he gestured at the photo. "Really, this? I thought you'd want to watch the football down the pub and see if we can get you a pint without the landlord being a wanker." 

"This," Owen said, sounding certain, though the idea of a pint and the Chelsea match did hold a certain appeal, and he leaned over the remnants of breakfast and tapped at the page. He felt nervous though he hadn't felt nervous in months and he hated it, and the look on Deckard's face was completely unreadable, or at least it was back then. And maybe he knew watching the match at the pub on the corner or ordering a Chinese and watching crap Saturday TV till _Match of the Day_ came on would've been the safe bet, but fuck safe bets. Owen doesn't make safe bets, he takes calculated risks. They both do. They both did, even then.

Deckard closed the magazine abruptly. "Go get a shower," he said, like that was that, decision made. "I'll be in my room when you're done." So, like a good little boy, Owen went upstairs to shower. He washed his hair with the crappy shampoo he'd meant to replace that smelled like Old fucking Spice and he scrubbed himself with a flannel till he felt like he might take his skin off if he didn't stop and he'd never shied away from anything in his life (except maybe his shitty drama homework in Y9 because who asks a thirteen-year-old to rewrite a scene from _Titus Andronicus_ in modern English anyway), so he turned off the shower and he dried himself off before he could change his mind and just wank in the shower like an idiot instead. Maybe Deckard was dicking about with him, maybe he was going to laugh and say _c'mon, you thought I was going to say yes?_ , but he was sure as damn it going to find out. He'd done stupider things, after all, like every fight he'd ever started, or at least he told himself they were stupider.

But, true to his word, Deckard was in his room when Owen was done. He was sitting there naked on the bed with his back pressed up to the headboard when Owen walked in without knocking, because he hadn't knocked on Deckard's door by then in years, and he looked up from the magazine he'd got open over his lap. 

"Take the towel off," he said, so Owen took the towel off from around his waist and he dropped it on the floor and it wasn't like it was the first time Deckard had seen him naked, but it _was_ the first time he'd looked at him exactly like that, with that look on his face like he was weighing his options and like he liked the idea of every single one of them. "Stop lurking. Come here." So he closed the bedroom door and he went over there. Deckard patted the mattress next to him. "Here. On your knees." So he got onto the bed, on his knees, facing the headboard, like that didn't feel strange at all. 

Deckard didn't ask him if he was sure. He didn't ask him if he wanted to have a think about it and come back to it later if he still felt that way inclined. He didn't ask him if he wanted to try something else first, just to start with, and maybe they could do that thing he wanted to do some other time when he was back in the UK on leave. He just pushed him down lower with one hand planted firmly between his shoulderblades and told him, "Come on, you can get your knees wider than that." So Owen shuffled his knees wider apart and Deckard ran his hands down Owen's back and over his hips and moved in so close that the front of his thighs met the back of Owen's. He ran his hands forward, over the front of Owen's thighs, between them, hooked them under and shifted him bodily till his arse was pressed up against Deckard's cock and fuck, that was hot; Owen wasn't exactly small back then, wasn't much smaller than he is now, just a little less muscle, and fuck, he moved him easily. He still does.

He shifted against him. Owen could feel Deckard getting hard against him as he rubbed against his arse, at least as hard as he was himself, as he eased his cheeks apart to rub between them. Then he pulled back, abruptly. He pushed him down to his hands and knees and he reached for the drawer by the bed and he didn't ask if Owen had done it before and these days Owen suspects it's because he didn't want to know if he'd been secretly screwing Tom from his sixth form football team while Deckard was deployed overseas. He hadn't, as it happened, but he's never felt inclined to tell him. Then Deckard's fingers pressed between his cheeks, slick with lube, and he teased him with them, he fucking _teased_ him, stroked his hole with the pad of his thumb, parted his cheeks with his other hand and ran one fingertip in a slow, light circle against the tight muscle. He pushed against it with his thumb, not hard enough to push inside but enough that Owen wished he had. He _really_ wished he had.

He spread his legs wider, so wide his own erection almost brushed against the duvet, and then Deckard pushed one finger in and Owen took a sharp breath. Deckard didn't ask how he was, if it hurt, if he wanted to stop, and Owen didn't want him to; he just pushed in right up to the knuckle and teased him with his thumb till he started to relax. He pushed a second in, hard, sudden, made Owen gasp and pull tight around him with two handfuls of the bed sheets. And he took his time. He _really_ took his time, rocking his fingers into him, fucking him with them, slow and deep but with some force behind it until Owen was pushing back against him. He didn't care how it looked because honestly, if there was one person in the world he could be honest with, it was Deckard.

Sometimes that's all he needs, like that time in Milan during fashion week when Deckard was still wearing his black leather driving gloves and there they were, some kind of overblown party after a show one night, both there on different jobs for different people; they'd eyeballed each other over the catwalk for forty minutes before they slipped into a service area and Deckard pushed him up face-first against the wall. He sucked on his gloved fingers and then he fucked him with them, his hand pushed down the back of Owen's tailored trousers, and Owen't still remembers it, the friction, how the leather made his fingers feel twice as big again, how he shoved down his own trousers and then Deckard stroked him with his other gloved hand. Sometimes that's all he needs.

Owen pushed back against him and he could've taken more, he really could. Sometimes he has, three fingers, all four; sometimes when they've turned off their phones and locked the flat up tight they've gone to bed and Deckard takes his time, takes forty minutes, sixty, ninety, traces all of Owen's scars with his fingers or his mouth or both, grazes his skin with his teeth as he fucks him with his fingers till Owen's head's swimming and his cock's so hard it almost hurts and then, sometimes, Deckard's fingers fold and he pushes again. And sometimes, _sometimes_ , Owen manages to relax just far enough that he can take him right up to the wrist. They both know he could never go that far with anyone else but him. There's a kind of trust he's never had with anyone but Deckard, and he's never wanted to.

He could've taken more but Deckard pulled his fingers back and he rubbed his cock against him. He thumbed himself down into place and he pushed inside him. Deckard's not small, there's nothing about him that's particularly small, and Owen remembers how it felt that first time, how Deckard put it in him, quickly but not too quickly, just quickly enough that he was fucking overwhelmed by it. Deckard held him still, his hands at Owen's waist as he flexed his hips and moved in him. He didn't give him a single second to catch his breath or find his composure, he just fucked him, slow and deep, four thrusts, five, ten, so hard his thighs slapped against Owen's and the bed frame shifted underneath them. 

Then he stopped. He stopped and he leaned down and he slipped his arms around Owen's waist and he pulled him back, took the weight of him and eased him up and back against his chest and Owen let him. He let his head drop back as he reached his one hand to Deckard's thigh and squeezed, as he reached the other back and raked his nails over the back of Deckard's neck. Deckard's mouth was on him, pressed to his shoulder as he shifted his hips and ground against him slowly and Owen pushed back to meet him, and Deckard's hands moved, one down to Owen's cock, thumb hooked loosely over the base and fingers dipping down to squeeze his balls, one up to Owen's exposed throat. Owen thinks it must've looked a lot like the photo in the magazine. He remembers even then it felt better than he'd thought it would. 

Then the hand at Owen's throat clamped down. Deckard pressed. His fingers tightened. He brought his other hand up to join the first and both tightened again and Owen panicked. It wasn't that he meant to and it's not like he ever has again, but that time, the first time, his hands flew up to Deckard's and he started to try to prise, to pry him fingers loose, with absolutely no luck. 

"Do you trust me?" Deckard said, right by his ear. Owen nodded faintly, as much as Deckard's grip around his neck allowed. "Then don't struggle." So Owen dropped his hands away, immediately. He let him do it. 

He remembers how hard it was to breathe at all, how he wanted to struggle but they again he didn't want to and he wanted to stop but he didn't want to and his breath came in ridiculous, audible hitches as Deckard fucked him and choked him and made his vision blur to black around the edges. He reached for his own cock and he stroked and he gasped and he quivered and he fought for breath and when he came, his hips jerked hard and his muscles pulled tight around the hard length of Deckard's cock and he saw fucking stars dancing there behind his eyelids and he didn't panic again. Deckard let go. Deckard pulled out and he eased him down on his back and he told him _breathe slowly_ as he watched him, closely, kneeling there between his thighs, still slick and hard. 

When he pushed up Owen's knees and pushed back into him, apparently satisfied that Owen was totally fine and wasn't about to faint, Owen could barely move his muscles were still so juddery. But he watched him, dizzy and giddy and more than willing, watched his hands on Owen's calves, the way his muscles flexed as he moved, the expression on his face. Deckard did it hard and fast and deep and Owen felt like he could've come from that if he hadn't ruined the sheets already because there was never a moment when he thought Deckard might go too far. He saw the way Deckard's jaw clenched up hard when his hips shoved forward and he came in him with a groan that Owen knows he could've bitten back if he'd wanted to. He guesses it spoke volumes that he didn't want to.

And after, Deckard pulled out and stretched out next to him. He turned onto his side and Owen watched him as he rested one hand over his throat. 

"It'll bruise," Deckard said. 

"I know," Owen replied, though it hurt to talk. He didn't say that was exactly what he'd wanted, and he guessed he didn't have to. And by the afternoon, playing Street Fighter on the console in the living room and Deckard getting his arse kicked royally because apparently he was better at that stuff in real life than he was digitally, the bruises were already there. That night, Deckard put his hands on them in front of Owen's bedroom mirror and his fingers fitted perfectly. When he fucked him there, his fingers on Owen's skin, he didn't squeeze; just the sight of Deckard's hands on him was enough, somehow.

The next day, he started to teach him to fight; when he asked why, Deckard said, "No one else is ever going to lay a finger on you." He never saw Tom from sixth form again. He's never asked why.

And now, Deckard has his hands around Owen's throat. It's not new but it's still thrilling in a way nothing's ever been with anyone else but Owen supposes that's to be expected because no one else is him. But still, honestly, at this precise moment, this isn't what he wants. He reaches up and he slaps Deckard straight across the cheek and there's a flash of something on his face that Owen rarely sees because in all of this, Deckard's always so damn controlled and he always has been, right from the start. Even when Owen's needling him into doing what he wants, there's a decision he makes to let himself be needled but right now, he's got him off balance. So he hits him again and it reopens the split in his lip and Deckard bares his teeth that ugly, fucking awful way he does when he's thinking of doing something that everyone's going to regret, probably including himself. So that's when Owen hits him _again_ , hard, hard enough he can hear it, when he pushes him back, and he kisses him, hard, up on his knees in a second to kiss him, then push him down on his back instead. 

There's a moment when Deckard resists, and then he makes a choice to let him do it. It's a conscious decision, like the time he'd beaten a guy so badly both of his hands swelled up and he could barely use them for a fortnight, and he could've just let his beard grow in but he let Owen shave him instead, stretching out his neck, fingers on his skin just before the razor. It's like every time he lets Owen use a knife and resists the urge to disarm him even when he nicks the skin because they both know he does that on purpose, because it's what Deckard does, too; Owen knows not every single scar they have's from the work. 

It's like the time Owen gave Deckard a key to the flat and let him find his way to it because even if it would've been safer if he hadn't, would've been ten times safer if neither of them had ever gone back to England at all, he'd rather take that calculated risk. Now the flat's full of t-shirts that more or less fit both of them and tracksuit bottoms that run three inches long on Deckard and every time Owen puts on a pair of Deckard's jeans by accident it's like he's sprung up three extra inches in the night. Deckard snickers at him and calls him lanky and Owen rolls his eyes and calls him short, and none of the neighbours can work out if they're brothers or lovers when they see Deckard in Owen's favourite coat. They're both. They have been for the past twenty years, on and off. Owen gets off on the ambiguity sometimes, how they stand almost too close in the lift while someone's watching, how Deckard rests a hand at the small of his back while he unlocks the door, and once they're inside Owen strips them both naked just to compare all the parts of them that look the same or don't. Maybe not _just_ that. Usually not just that.

There's a moment then when Deckard resists, but then he lets Owen push him down. It's a different kind of surrender from the fights that he tries to let Owen win and if Owen knows it then he suspects that Deckard knows it, too. There's no winning or losing here. He unties Deckard's tie and Deckard lets him wrap it tight around his wrists, lets him tie him to the headboard Owen picked out because it's strong enough for this, even though they both know he generally hates to be bound. He lets him unbuckle his belt and pull down his ruined trousers just past his knees and that's far enough. He watches him while he slicks his cock and then Owen pushes up Deckard's knees, pushes at the back of his thighs, watches Deckard strain at the tie round his hands, watches his muscles strain, biceps working hard, and maybe it's awkward, maybe Deckard's trousers are half in the way and Deckard's cock's getting caught under the hem of his shirt, but Owen's strong enough to hold him there, just like that, as he steers his cock up between Deckard's cheeks. Just because Owen doesn't like to fight that doesn't mean he can't; just because Deckard's stronger, that doesn't mean Owen's not strong. 

He pushes in, hard and fast, because he knows exactly what Deckard can and can't take, what he does and doesn't want. He knows if he shoves Deckard's shirt up under his armpits he can watch the muscles in his abdomen strain with what they're doing. He knows the rhythm that'll make Deckard groan and push down against him till he's basically trying to fuck himself on the length of Owen's cock. He knows if he presses one hand to Deckard's throat, he won't try to resist. Deckard Shaw doesn't lose control, he never does, but sometimes he gives it up willingly - with his brother, behind closed doors. 

Owen presses one hand to Deckard's throat, slowly, steadily; he knows the pressure it needs because he learned from the very best. Deckard watches him. Deckard breathes, audibly, and Owen watches him breathe, watches his face, his eyes, feels his muscles, feels him squeeze around him, sees his hands pulling tight at the tie round his wrists and he knows it'll be ruined before they're finished but it's not as if they don't have fifty of them in a cupboard across the room and no idea at this point which belong to Deckard and which to Owen, like so many things. Owen fucks him, slowly, in measured thrusts; it feels good, it feels amazingly good, it feels like he's hanging onto control by his fingertips and all it would take is one slip for it to all go wrong, but he knows what he's doing. He has to.

He watches Deckard's face for signs, reads the reactions of his muscles as he fucks him and right then, that look, Deckard gasping for breath, Deckard's arms going slack, his back arching, that's it. He lets go of Deckard's throat and when he touches his cock it's twenty seconds before he comes all over his stomach, and it's forty seconds after that till Owen bucks his hips and comes in him. Deckard's eyes are on him as he does it. No one's ever trusted him the way Deckard does. No one's ever trusted him the way his brother does. No one could. No one _should_.

They probably won't be there much longer than a couple of days, Owen thinks, because they rarely are. It's generally not safe for either of them unless they're moving, and there's always another job to do, another payday. But when Owen pulls out of him, slowly, carefully, when he takes off Deckard's shoes and his socks and the sadly ruined trousers and he stretches out next to him, he knows it's not the fucking flat that's the important part. 

"I've got a job lined up in Russia," Owen says, as he's unbuttoning Deckard's shirt with one hand, almost idly because it's not as if he can take off Deckard's shirt with his hands still bound. "Come work with me."

"You mean come work _for_ you," Deckard replies, with a quirk of his brows. 

"What if I do?"

Deckard grins, and with one yank of his arms the headboard breaks and his hands are free. Owen's hardly surprised; the bed's strong, but it's not _that_ strong. It was never meant to be Deckard-proof. 

"I'll fight you for it," Deckard says. "If I win, you work for me instead."

"You're on," Owen replies. His grin's just as sharp as Deckard's; that's one thing they have in common.

Owen doesn't like to fight, but that doesn't mean he can't. And maybe he has a few tricks left up his sleeve that Deckard hasn't seen yet. 

Owen doesn't like to fight. That is, unless he's fighting Deckard.


End file.
